So, in a not exactly rare occurrence, one of the women where I work is gonna have a baby. Well whoopdie-frickin’ doo. Now, I certainly respect motherhood, don’t get me wrong. Mostly, I respect the part where I’m not the one who gets pregnant and/or has to give birth (this, by the way, is the most concrete evidence I can image that, if there actually is a God, He’s gotta be a dude). So I naturally think it’s just freakin’ wonderful when women where I work get knocked up, and I also think it’s just fine and dandy when the other women at work want to make a big goddamn deal over it, and throw them a baby shower. But fer chrissakes, don’t invite me to the damn thing, and don’t bother telling me where she’s registered for gifts. Being a guy, I should be exempt from all non-hygiene related shower activity, including wedding showers, baby showers, shower invitations, shower planning, shower gift giving, and, most definitely, shower attending. You wanna go out for a beer, fine, I’m in. Sitting around, oohing and aahing over some unrelenting parade of stupid, cutesy baby gifts that won’t fit two weeks after birth, however, is not my idea of a good time. I don’t give a shit about booties, blankies, doilies, onesies (whatever the hell they are), or nappies. Wrap the little bastids up in the Sunday Times ’til they stop spitting up and crapping themselves for all I care. When they’re old enough to cut the grass and shovel the driveway, give me a call. You wanna capture my interest? Get a puppy.

And, hey, sorry, but you know what? Don’t expect me to chip in for some damn group gift, either. I don’t have kids and am past my chiild-bearing years, so just leave me out of it, OK? It’s bad enough I have to pay to educate your dirty little germ-spreading spawn (very few of whom seem worth paying for, past about sixth grade or so), don’t hit me up for a donation just ‘cuz you took it upon yourself to breed. You know damn well you’ll be hittin’ me up in a couple years to buy some overpriced candy bars or crappy Girl Scout cookies (4 bucks for like six Thin Mints; GMAFB. I don’t even like Thin Mints), so how’s about you at least give me a break ’til the damn thing’s done gestating?

Not that I’m a miserable old man or anything, but, jeezus, I work in a pretty large organization, and it seems like every day, somebody I barely know (or have never even heard of) is either getting married, having babies, selling raffle tickets, or dropping dead. There seems to be a constant collection going on, and, being already married, w/o kids, and not quite dead yet, I feel like I’m getting the short end of the stick.

And I can’t say no ‘cuz, lucky me, the one goddamn thing about being Catholic that took with me was the whole perpetual guilt thing (though I guess I should consider myself lucky I wasn’t in it long enough to have to blow a priest or anything).

Oh well, there’s a swarm of old broads preparing to infest the house for some kind of meeting this morning, so I’ve gotta finish reinforcing my basement bunker. That’s where the dogs and I will be hiding ’til the coast is clear.